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Soldiers, Saints and Kings

The Plays of Donald R. Rawe

Paul Newman

               Works of Donald R. Rawe

Donald Rawe is a writer and a Cornishman. These two facts complement each other in an unusual way, writers today being seldom inspired by their birthplaces to the point of total commitment. When he was twenty-three, he submitted the manuscript of his first novel to Jonathan Cape, who, marking his as a writer of promise, accepted it for publication. The novel, entitled, ‘Looking for Love in a Great City’, was published in 1956; according to the blurb on the jacket, it concerned "the human desire to love and be loved, seen against the background of London today - with all the complex and difficult circumstances city life can impose upon the lives of individuals."

Pertinently, it concluded:

"The predicaments and desires of these people, reacting upon and radically influencing each other, form a most remarkable novel by a young author of marked originality and great competence in character-creation and story-telling."

What happened to this young author who displayed such competence and originality?

The answer is predictably brutal. he failed to capture the imagination of the public in the same way as he did the publisher’s reader. Few people bought the book. it gathered the usual round of reviews, some appreciative, some dismissive: ‘Punch’ liked the novel; also ‘Time and Tide’ wrote a kindly account of it, and the ‘Spectator’ gave it an honourable mention, while the ‘Observer’ ignored it, and the ‘Sunday Times’ reviewer, with a few deft strokes of his critical scalpel, shredded it to ribbons.

Despite its lukewarm critical reception and somewhat diffuse style, ‘Looking for Love’ was a good effort, full of telling dialogue, and displaying an ability for pinning down those wisps of feeling which elude less perceptive writers. So undeterred, Rawe produced a second novel, an intricate muddled piece of writing, which today even he admits to have difficulty in deciphering. When it was promptly rejected by a string of publishers, his hopes of becoming a literary celebrity began to dwindle.

Tiring of England and literary forays, Rawe left his native Padstow for Australia, where he worked as a teacher, using whatever spare time he had to write in. There again, he scored a modest success. Australian Radio broadcast one of his plays. Encouraged he persevered with a third novel - a great millwheeling narrative, set in Australia, and interspersed with a lengthy stream of consciousness passage. Although beautifully written in parts, and immensely ambitious in its sheer variety of texture and theme, the structure of this work is flawed; certain sections seem more impressive in isolation than in context -particularly those where the landscape of the Outback and its arboreal verges are described. Here, sense-impressions literally steam off the pages and mingle and overlap in Keatsian profusion.

Finally, it needs to be said that The Mind has its Mountains, which is the title of this faintly perverse novel, lacks the instant readability which is increasingly expected of modern authors: densely pasted with verbless images, embracing heterosexual and homosexual relationships, educational mysticism, diatribes against commercialism and vivid evocations of Padstow in the past, no publisher was found sufficiently courageous or crazy - according to one’s viewpoint - to handle it. One Literary Agent sent it to fourteen: offers were not forthcoming.

Rawe and his Australian wife, after their home and possessions had been gutted by fire, returned to Britain, where he took over. his father’s outfitting business and re-established his roots in his home-town. More significantly, he began to question his vocation as a novelist - for he was beginning to feel increasingly frustrated at having written so much and communicated so little. A fresh outlet for his creative energies was needed. But for the meantime, he continued the business, and pursued a growing interest in the history and legends of Kernow.,

Of all works that gripped him at this period, Canon Doble’s definitive study of the lives of the Cornish saints stimulated his imagination, and thereby inspired the writing of his first play,. ‘Petroc of Cornwall’. First presented in Bodmin Church by a group Rawe had formed himself called ‘The Kernow Players’, this fine work, written in blank verse after the fashion of the Cornish Miracle plays, made a striking impression. Nearly everyone who saw it was impressed by the grave and beautiful results of Rawe’s enterprise. At this time also, the students of Bristol University were putting on Ordinalia at Piran Round. This production, of what is perhaps the most celebrated and impressive of the miracle plays, was a brilliant and lavish one which re-affirmed Cornish theatre as a living and dynamic entity. Although Rawe never saw this mammoth production, he was affected by its success and decided that his drama, ‘Petroc’ might also prove entertaining in the open air.

Piran Round is relatively well-known among Cornish theatregoers, in fact, it is one of the few really ancient surviving open-air theatres in Britain. ‘The Minack ‘Iheatre, near Penzance, generally attracts larger audiences and has a more superficially glamorous setting, but it is a comparitively modern structure, unable to claim links with that remotest past which distinguished its forbear. Perhaps at this point, it would be helpful to briefly summarise the history of the ‘plen-an-gwarry’ in Cornwall, so Rawe’s plays can be related to the tradition they follow.

Piran Round is a large circular earthwork - possibly dating from the 5th Century B.C. - on the outskirts of Perranporth, Cornwall. Most likely it was originally used as a primitive form of enclosure, built by early Celtic farmers to keep out cold winds, wolves and livestock-thieves; also, to engirdle their primitive huts and so distinguish the property owned by one family or tribe from that of another.

Hundreds of these ‘rounds’ or ‘playing places’ existed all over Cornwall, and the vestiges of many can he identified today. During Medieval times, another purpose was found for these enclosed spaces. By shifting a few tons of earth and stone, so as to construct a place of exit, it was found that they made excellent open-air theatres - ideal places in which to perform the Cornish Miracle plays.

These plays, which for some years have provided a happy hunting-ground for scholars and exegesists, were written in the Cornish language - a branch of Celtic once widespread over the British Isles, and now being actively (if self–consciously) revived. All these dramas are religious in theme and content, dealing with the type of grandiose Biblical narratives immortalised by Cecil B. De Mille. The most famous, the Ordinalia, comprises three distinct parts - ‘The Passion’, ‘The Creation’ and The Resurrection’ - which seen together form a truly epic spectacle.

The Cornish Miracle Plays can be regarded as the first really popular drama, involving full community participation. They flourished for hundreds of years, and the last of them would have been performed as late of the time of the Civil War in the 17th Century. The opening speech of Rawe’s play, ‘The Trials of St. Piran’, sums up the medieval concept of an open-air theatre:

Like the medieval dramatists, Rawe showed an instinctive flair for utilising the Round. And it is precisely this which makes his plays theatrically satisfying, in that they are not just written for any theatre, but for a particular one. Seeing a performance therefore is a unique - somewhat uncanny - experience, because he invokes those very ghosts who belong to the period at which the primitive Round was flourishing.

The audience will sit back on the rim of the massive earthwork and watch figures appear on the ramparts - heroes of the past whose activities have been obscured and enriched by legend. They declare their names and identities with a challenging, mournful air, as though piqued no one might otherwise recognise them. After an hour or so, a coldness glazes the air. Blades of shadow stretch across the fields. Scraps of mist are blown around the amphitheatre and shimmer in the spotlights. A transformation seems to be taking place, where the actors, touched by the aura of the spot, grow in stature and confidence until they resemble the archetypes - kings, warriors, saints, huntsmen. hermits, priests - they are attempting to dramatically realise. A strange rapport has been established where the past is intruding on the present. The audience, by now huddled in thick blankets. recede amidst this atmosphere of heightening tension, whilst the players loom large and dominate them, their voices echoing and dwindling in the night air.

To the actors themselves, the experience is an unusual one. Up there on the ramparts, darkness has erased all signs of civilisation. They are not ordinary actors whispering casually among themselves backstage; instead they are isolated figures strung along a crude earthwork. The audience does not psychologically threaten. It does not hem then in - at times they can actually encircle it. Instinctively they feel the spot is sympathetic to them. Hundreds of years of custom and tradition have laid the ground for their performance. The feeling has nothing remotely in common with acting inside an enclosed area, there being fewer distractions to remind them of the present. They are touching the nerve of primitive entertainment; they are at the tap-roots of drama.

Drama critics are usually cautious reviewing new plays, and even more so if they are provincial or part-time critics, unused to judging original work. A bad play may receive kindly treatment at their hands and an exceptionally good play the same. Afraid of being wrong-footed by scholar and specialists, they play safe by writing vague non-committal reviews, preferring to confine their critique to pin-pointing minor faults in the acting and production. New plays are not part of their stock-in-trade, and they are therefore unsure about assessing the quality of the writing, their faculties being accustomed to plays whose merits - or lack of them - are already established.

It is in this way a writer like Donald Rawe suffers critical neglect, in that his plays are written within an open-air mediaeval tradition, long-forgotten by modern authors. Also, his plays are often costume dramas, set around the 5th Century B.C., a period not particularly favoured by West End audiences - hence he has little chance of attracting criticism of the quality he deserves. Beyond this, the plays themselves are idiosyncratic dramas, full of ritualistic and heroic obsessions, revelling in the poignance of dying magnificence, often interlarded with songs, mimes, thick slabs of verse and other unfashionable theatrical devices. Points like these encourage reviewers to treat them as charming oddities. Petroc of Cornwall, his first play - presented by the Kernow Players at Piran Round in 1970 - received nothing like the recognition it merited.

This fascinating verse pageant - published by the Lodenek Press - is one of those rare plays that are self-sufficient, that can be read as literature in their own right. Those who appreciate poetry - springy, evocative verse, replete with well-observed natural detail - should get added enjoyment. St. Petroc’s life is possibly the best-documented of all the Cornish saints; many West Country churches are named after him and a few Welsh ones.

The Narrator who opens the play summarises the saint’s achievement and renown:

Quite a number of the legends surrounding Petroc’s life are included in the play - notably how he quelled a fierce dragon. Here are a few lines describing the sensational creature:

St. Petroc whispers a psalm into the dragon’s ear. The beast is soothed and gently licks his hand. Binding his girdle round the monster, the saint leads him away:

For those who like a sharply-observed rendering of natural detail, the description of Petroc in the wooded vale near Lanwethinoc would be difficult to better:

Broadly speaking, the critical response to Petroc was favourable, but not a single reviewer noted that the quality of the writing was outstanding. Very few living writers are capable of producing a workable drama in blank verse. Donald Rawe, like Norman Nicholson in Cumberland, is one of the few who have mastered this skill. The speeches in Petroc are stripped and effective; they also have richness, rhythm and precision. The narrowness of Rawe's focus is compensated by the integrity and expertise which he can bring to bear on the subject. Literature itself sprung from the heart of tightly-knit communities, and by writing from a defiantly nationalistic standpoint, Rawe is perpetuating the very tradition from which poetic inspiration was originally drawn.

The Trials of St. Piran – Rawe’s most light-hearted play to date – was performed at Piran Round in July, 1971. St. Piran has long been one of the most popular of Celtic saints. He is the patron saint of the tinners, and is loved as much for his flaws - a tendency towards hard-drinking and flirting with the fairer sex - as for his spiritual qualities. Rawe’s play revolves around a well-known legend of St. Piran. A Cornish chieftain abducts a novice nun from her convent and St. Piran is given the task of getting her back. He finds the chief who refuses to surrender the novice to the convent, unless St. Piran produces a miracle, namely a cuckoo in November. This Piran does, and the young nun goes back to the convent, the chieftain being suitably humbled.

However, Rawe’s treatment of this story is another thing altogether. Unfolding the action of the play through a sort of retrospective-trial, he shows how the kindly saint’s actions have been misconstrued. 1hree judges - St. Petroc, St. Cadoe, St. Newlyna, the wayside mystic - call on Piran to justify his ambiguous behaviour, and so the story is unfolded through a succession of flashbacks, embracing his past experiences in Ireland - his falling foul of his former friend, Aengus, King of Munster - his brush with a seductive temptress -even Jesus Christ himsellf is brought into the play! Piran, after being reproached by various spectres from his own past, is suddenly revived by a vision of his mother, followed by divine affirmation of his purpose. The appearance of Christ coincides with the climax of his spiritual and mental anguish. Here, Rawe is perhaps consciously echoing the episode ‘An Veren ha’y Moys’, from Bewians Meriasek, where Jesus intervenes to free a young man from prison.

A special feature of the play was its liberal use of Cornish dia!eet words, such as ‘glumps’ (sulks or glooms), ‘quiddles’ (foolish fancies) and ‘cababbling’ (deceiving). ‘Ihese, without creating a serious obstacle to intelligibility, enhanced the Ceite flavour of the drama, and gave the dialogue a crunch directness. This is borne out in the portrayal of Bran Meriadoc, the genial and bumbling chieftain, whose slow-witted integrity Piran respects. Here he is, returning on horseback, after a night’s intensive celebration

BRAN:

Bran dismounts and immediately falls into a drunken stupor. Thelka, the novice nut) and willing party to the abduction, cajoles his sleeping form.

THELKA

Her speech testifies to how dialect can give new life to language:

It is a measure of Rawe’s grasp of spectacle and theatrical effect that, despite its rambling and disgressions, ‘The Trials of Saint Piran’ proved to be something more than an engaging - if occasionally cranky - rehash of a folktale, but, in its potent mingling of the bawdy and comico--religious, a minor tour de force.

And for Betty Roberts, administrator of The Round, it provided at least one unforgettable moment:

"It (the thunderstorm), has been gathering all evening and, as the climax of the play approached, so did the storm. St. Piran was in the middle of his big speech. "Give me a sign, 0 Lord," he thundered. The Lord, very obligingly I felt, decided to co-operate, and, right on cue, sent a flash of lightning followed by a roll of thunder."

Rawe’s third play in the trilogy, Geraint, Last of the Arthurians, though lacking the strong literary quality of ‘Petroc’, is his most ambitious so far. It is an interesting new development, in that the action of the drama is closely woven with the plot; there is generally less dialogue for its own sake; as a piece of writing it is more homogenous.

Geraint of Cornwall - great lover, former lieutenant of King Arthur, defender of the Christian and Druid faith - is dying, and the action of the play concerns the intrigues surrounding the succession to the throne. Enid, his once beautiful queen, is ageing and embittered; she has taken up religion, and has not slept in her husband’s bed for twenty years. Geraint will no longer allow her to visit him, knowing that she has grown to despise him, and only seeks to further the ambitions of her two sons. The end of an epoch is at hand.

Who call follow Geraint? Only, it appears, small mean men who scuttle about plotting subterfuge in the wake of his passing. Selyf, Geraint’s youngest son, inspired by his vicious wife, Merouda, plans to take the throne by force. Jestyn, the elder son and lawful heir, is loath to accept the burdens of kingship, preferring the ascetic life of a holy man. But he is reluctant to let the throne go to Selyf, whom lie considers too headstrong, warlike and impulsive, to be of any practical value to the kingdom. And the situation is further complicated by the fact that neither of the two brothers has a son or heir to continue the line: Merouda is sterile. Jestyn is unmarried and physically revolted by the idea of sexual commerce with anyone.

But unknown to them, Geraint has already solved their problem. Whilst walking on the battlements with Elbryn, his armourer and faithful servant, lie beard a laundry girl singing a lovesong. So pleasing was her voice that he asked Elbryn, who was mildly acquainted with her family, to introduce her. And so the girl, Jowanet, is brought into the King’s bedchamber. Though decrepit and infirm, Geraint persuades her to lie with him, and as a result she is made pregnant.

When Queen Enid finds Jowanet in her husband’s bedchamber she throws her out in a fit of frenzy. Then she taunts and badgers the king, imploring him to abdicate in favour of his sons. Failing this, she attempts to once more rouse his passions; but is brutally rebuked: "Te me you’re merely a half-naked bony old woman making herself ridiculous." She climbs on top of him and wrestles with him; he is too feeble to break free. He struggles and kicks on the bed - but Enid tightens her grasp bringing on a stroke in the old man.

Bishop Teilo, Geraint’s old comrade who many years ago converted him, now appears on the scene. He has had a vision forewarning him of the king’s condition, and has come to perform the last rites. The king eventually dies; Jestyn become regent and gives his brother, Selyf, full command of the army, so that he might take a force against the Saxons who are infiltrating Dumnonia. Meanwhile Teilo, following Geraint’s last wishes, contact Jowanet and makes provision for her and the child.

Geraint’s magnificent funeral is followed by a sumptuous banquet, where Jestyn is called upon to speak. Claiming that someone fiercer and more warlike would be fitted to the responsibilities of kingship, he announces that he intends to eventually renounce the throne. Debate then follows as to his possible successor. Jowanet, aided by Bishop Teilo, announces to the company that she is bearing Geraint’s child. Consternation all round, and exclamations of amazement at the old man’s spritely performance. Queen Enid, naturally furious, tries to stab Jowanet - but is thwarted by Elbryn’s intervention. A bugle is heard outside of the palace gates - Selyf’s army has returned from fighting the Saxons by the Parret; but it is not a victorious one. The prince is carried in on a litter – he has lost a leg and his shoulder and forehead are swathed in blood-wet bandages. But this is not the full extent of his injuries; to the assembled company, he reveals that he has a wound in his groin which renders him impotent. Merouda, horrified, flings herself over the palace battlements.

And so the action ends on a note of sadness and uncertainty. As for the succession-problem, that is resolved by a rather forced compromise. Briefly, Jestyn is to continue as regent until Jowanet’s child comes of age, when he will take over the throne and allow the older man to retire to a life of spiritual asceticism. Jestyn, after cataloguing the problems that will perplex his future, winds up the play with rather hollow optimism:

JESTYN: For myself, I see doleful years stretching ahead of me – years of intrigue, state-councils and plots, financial matters, expediency and diplomacy; being badgered by advisors and ambassadors, importuned by courtiers who urge restraint, and courtiers who wish to line their own pockets…

Although predominantly grim in tone, the play has its lighter moments. There is, for instance, this engagingly pert exchange between the sanctimonious Jestyn, and Keresen, his childhood sweetheart, who finds difficulty in coming to terms with his encroaching other-worldliness.

JESTYN: I am considering taking a vow of celibacy. In fact, in a way, I have already done that.

KERESEN: I don’t understand you.

JESTYN: I suppose not. But lately, you see, I have come to certain conclusions about myself and what I should devote myself to.

KERESEN: Don’t tell me you want to cut yourself off and be a hermit? We have enough of those scruffy creatures in Cornwall already.

Also, two fine songs, written and sting in Cornish, appear in the play. The first of these - Jowanet’s Song - has a wistful lyricism, while the second - Lament for Geraint - has a stern grandeur. The English translation of the latter runs :

But perhaps the plays central achievement is the portrayal of Jestyn. We see the unfolding of the drama through his eyes, coloured by his own scepticism, his recoiling from any form of brashness or display of superfluous emotion. We see him – wry, fastidious, ironic – sleekly threading a prickly undergrowth of intrigue and counter-plot.

He is the single figure with whom a twentieth-century onlooker can identify. He both distances the action and bridges the gap between the audience and the players by expressing sentiments - dislike of florid pageantry, war-mongering in the name of Christianity and dumb adherence to outworn traditions -which are distinctly modern in tone and outlook. By introducing Jestyn as an ironic mediator, Rawe has effectively blocked the way for those who would disparage the drama, saying it only voices certain commonplaces which have come to be associated - via history, legend and inspired guesswork - with the age in which it is set. Jestyn is in the lens through which the audience focuses the action of the play; he is the most three-dimensional and the most elusive character in the drama. Reflecting on Geraint’s deliberately pagan funeral ceremony, his patter, resigned to compromise yet tinged with disdain, strikes exactly the right note of cynicism:

JESTYN: There he went, my father Geraint, his funeral befitting the life he had lived; one of magnificence, daring, romance; and also waste. Yet, I, Jestyn, alone of them all, dare to say it: waste, from first to last.

Like most original plays, ‘Geraint’ is not without a number of flaws. Certain characters reveal their intentions with an explicitness reminiscent of the more crudely-written passages of Marlowe. There is a tendency for them to be at each others throats from the very start. Although intrinsically dramatic, this is rather jolting for an audience who have not fully grasped the significance of the various parts. Involvement with a play demands that the actors should excite both the curiosity and sympathy of the audience which is not easy when immersed in violent conflicts from the outset. Too much naked antagonism tends to stunt the emotional development of the characters; they become rasping voices acting, so to speak, with all the stops out.

Also, the writing at times shows signs of slackness, probably due to over-hurried preparation. Dialogue generally would not suffer if it were tightened and pruned, and there are certain lines in the play which a fastidious eye would reject. To cite a specific example, Selyf, in conversation with Jestyn and Bishop Teilo, remarks:

"I think, certainly, he would wish to see you immediately."

The two adverbs ‘certainly’ and ‘immediately’ give the line an odd rhythmical balance blurring the outline of a simple statement.

Minor criticisms aside, however, the play as a whole constituted a remarkable experience. And there were some gorgeous moments of spectacle. Audiences held their breath, when, after the king had died, a golden boat with silver oars was drawn across the stage, strewn with chalices and goblets and bearing his body partly covered by a huge orange-black- shield. This phantom boat, extremely effective during the night-time, proved slightly less impressive - to some at least - during the matinee performance. One reviewer complained of "the near disastrous entry of an appallingly plastic boat, guided by semi-hidden feet…" Still, there were other great moments, too. Just before Geraint dies, he asks Elbryn, his armourer and top marksman, to shoot his royal cockbird - his favourite swan. The arrow pierces the bird – chords of frantic harp music echoes its agony. A pause. The swan reels in the sky, symbolising Geraint’s soul fluttering between life and death. Another pause. A messenger boy shouts: ‘The King is dead’, and the body of the swan flops lifeless to the earth.

And, again, when Jowanet climbs into bed with the eighty year old king, Rawe employs a tasteful device to avoid being explicit. The figure of the young Geraint appears, wearing a golden mask. After going through a somewhat chaste dance routine with two pulchritudinous Celtic maidens – representing a pageant of his former loves – he walks off with a third girl, clad in white samite like the Lady of the Lake, to reflect Jowanet’s virginity.

It was scenes like these, dynamically employing masque and mime, which appealed most strongly to the audience. They struck a chord of sympathy because they visually embodied the lost poetry of the stage. To theatregoers nurtured on the style of slightly heightened naturalism, so dear to contemporary drama, such scenes were as startling as a flock of flamingoes paddling in a Birmingham canal.

And it is here where Rawe’s strength lies, in his ability to flesh-out legend, inject it with a shot of realism, and to present in theatrical terms, vital, arresting and often starkly poetic The final verdict on Rawe’s writing will lie open for some time yet, but the course for his future development, whatever form it will take. seems almost certainly to lie in the legend-encrusted land of his birth. After a not particularly sympathetic review of Geraint, a young critic conceded that the plays of Donald Rawe, more so than that of any other author, were becoming synonymous with a Cornish National Theatre – a conclusion, I think, that truly points the way.